Predator. Prey.

It's Working

I sat silently in my office, my head reeling over the fact that I had made the conscious decision to do whatever it takes to cure the Joker. I took a deep breath and repeated this thought in my head again and again.

'I can fix him. I can help him.'

I was so close, and I knew I was strong enough, but this burden was causing a relentless aching pain in the pit of my stomach. The way he watched me with his eyes, the way his hands floated and moved with such an effortless purpose, it was as if he truly was this character he has concocted in his head. I opened the steel cabinet next to my legs and pulled out his file once again to read the words I've practically memorized. Stories of his mother and father filled the reports, each one contradictory, inconsistent, and somewhat repetitive. Every time he 'opened up' about his past, he spoke of an abusive father and an absent mother. Everything else was completely different.

How could someone be hurt to the point of abandoning their previous identity and forming an entirely new one? This was beyond him being a psychopath. He had a classic case of dissociative identity disorder. Joker is the psychopath. The man he has hidden away inside himself is a lost, tortured soul. And he must be released.

I picked up my pen and started writing: theories, ideas, possible questions and their answers, and reasons for his actions. Why was he so intent on murdering the batman? Why did he seek to breed chaos out of order? Why see only one man in a bat suit as his equal?

Page after page I wrote, not stopping, and not giving up. When there was a knock at the door, I almost jumped out of my skin.

"Come in," I tried to hide my annoyed demeanor. When I looked up, however, annoyance melted into nerves. Standing before me was Dr. Arkham himself, looking timeless yet formal in his grey pressed suit. The old man straightened the glasses that rested on his nose, his grey hair meticulously combed over his spotted head.

"Dr. Quinzel? Do you have a moment?"

"Of course, please, call me Harleen."

I stood up in front of my chair as he shut the door behind me. I've only met Dr. Arkham once, and it was for only a moment as he welcomed me at my first briefing session. It was before I had officially started working. He put his pale, wrinkly hand out to meet mine,

"It's a pleasure to see you again, Harleen. I like what you've done with your office."

He motioned towards the posters, and I smiled,

"I know it's kind of a lot, but they help me stay in a positive mindset."

"Whatever gets the job done, gets the job done."

I gathered my papers and pushed them to one side as we sat down, and he looked at me with weary eyes,

"I understand you've been assigned to patient 0?"

What the hell was this meeting about? Please be good news. I looked down and nodded,

"Yes, and I've been making incredible progress with an unconventional treatment plan Dr. Jenson approved."

"I've been reading your evaluation reports. They're quite impressive."

I looked up and beamed with pride,

"Thank you. I am quite confident I can make a real difference here."

Dr. Arkham furrowed his eyebrows and pursed his lips,

"But I believe I must inform you of something that you might not be aware of."

My face became hot and my vision was turning red. Did he know about the rose? Or Jackson? Was he a part of Joker's ring? The voice in my head was spewing out accusations and ideas that were illogical but frightening. The head of the asylum took off his glasses,

"This is the...longest...it's ever been since patient 0 has attempted to escape. It's been almost two weeks."

I leaned back in my chair and sighed. Thank god. I quickly regained my composure and questioned,

"How many times has he attempted to escape?"

"He's been institutionalized thirteen times. He has escaped twelve."

"Oh."

So that's why there were so many psychologists assigned to his case over the years. He kept escaping and requiring new ones. Jackson's words repeated in my head,

'He runs this whole fucking city, baby...'

I gulped and looked at the bridge of Dr. Arkham's nose, trying to remain professional.

"So, he's never been in Arkham longer than two weeks?"

He shook his head, waiting for me to process the information. Jackson's threat approached my thoughts again,

'He's going to escape: and soon.'

But why hasn't he yet? What was taking him so long? If he ran Gotham, then why was he still here? As I tried to concoct an answer, Dr. Arkham cleared his throat,

"I don't know what you two are really doing in these private sessions you've requested, but whatever it is, keep it up. It could be working."

I gave the doctor a brilliant smile and nodded my head in thanks. He stood up and so did I. He rubbed his glasses with a handkerchief and put them back on his face, giving me a half smile,

"If he wanted to leave, he would have already. You are attracting his attention. Don't give him a reason to escape again."

He shook my hand once more, and after two quiet 'goodbyes', Dr. Arkham was out of my office and my breathing returned to normal as I sat back down.

It was as if fate herself was giving me sign and after sign to reassure me I was so close to a breakthrough with Joker. He wasn't trying to escape, that means he's here for a reason. The part of him that's hidden away is pulling him towards help; he's subconsciously trying to save what's left of the old him. Joker and his true self are fighting against each other: one seeks power, the other freedom. And for once in what must be a long time, the part seeking freedom is starting to take over.

I couldn't be more hopeful.